Eternity
by That-Fresh-Rain-Smell
Summary: The scars tell a story. Snarry Oneshot Angst CharacterDeath.


_Eternity_

Story Title: Eternity (Kate's contribution…I won't tell you just how many titles she has come up with for me)

Author: That-Fresh-Rain-Smell (no wait that one's mine)

Er…Pairing: Snarry

Summary: Sixth year Snape is still potions master and Harry wants private lessons if he cannot have regular ones.

Warnings: uhm….my usual…oh, I warn you now! There's an unsatisfying cliffy ending that I will NOT be continuing. Sorry but those types of endings make me happy…for some reason…

Plot Point: not Scabbers!

A/N: So I can't remember when I came up with this but it was when I was rereading the sixth book, so like,(oh crap I used 'like' in a written sentence. I am SO busted) last week or the week before. Er…enjoy and review…?

I love you Kate!!!!

A/N2: Yeah…that last author note was written quite a while ago…before book seven…Erm…I'm lazy? Oh yeah so thank you also to Joe who helped my think of a word near the smut area cause he called me and I was still writing. Yeah, so thank you Joe for the inspiration. And Kate for the title and summary and plot!

Love you Kate! I love how we're both writing right now. You and your drowning story, and me and this. Woot!

-Cozy

* * *

"Potter, while you might have nothing better to do than to show up early for your detentions, I, on the other hand, _use_ what little spare time I have before I am forced to baby sit you in a fruitless attempt to control your unacceptable behavior." The man drawled, not looking up from the potions text he graded. Harry bit his lip, standing in the doorway of the classroom

"I'm sorry sir." Was all he said, and the man sighed in agitation before motioning to the filthy cauldrons.

"You may begin," he said, still not looking up at Harry as the boy proceeded to the cauldrons and began the grueling task of manually cleaning each one.

When next he looked up Harry stood before him in a demure type of stance, eyes cast down, hands linked in front of him, feet too close together. Looking beyond the boy he saw that each of the cauldrons were cleaned and neatly stacked.

"You may go Potter," he growled, annoyed with how easy the task was becoming for the boy who spent more nights here than anywhere else.

"Sir," Harry said, not looking up. Snape growled.

"What, Potter."

"I was wondering…I know you only accept O students in your NEWT potions class, but I was wondering…"

"I will not make exceptions for you, Potter. No matter how special you seem to think you are, you will not be getting special treatment from me for simply being the golden boy. The students in my NEWT level course are there because they have the _skill_, something you obviously lack. Now, get out of my sight."

Harry looked like he would have liked to say something more, but he bit his lip and left the room silently, closing the door behind him.

He later found himself crouched on the cold stone floor of the dungeon with his back to the wall, chills crawling up his spine in sporadic waves. He growled softly in his throat and began scratching a safety pin back and forth with the precision of a doctor, not really wanting to see blood, just feeling the need of pain.

His wrist a total cascade of rough scratch marks, he moved on to his thighs and calves, reopening old wounds and tracing new ones tenderly next to old, raised scars.

While he enjoyed the subtle paper-cut of the razor, and the immediate pain of the burning flame, his choice weapon was the safety pin. It was inconspicuous, innocent-looking, could be carried around on his person without using pockets or charms, and was a more passive pain.

That type of inert pain made him loose track of time; feel out of juncture with the rest of the world for just moments. And this was perfect. It was enough.

He cared not if someone glimpsed his many scars or even the large, raised silver one that trailed his jugular—his one attempted suicide.

-

_Words cut into his flesh_

_Marked him_

_Tainted him_

_Lines drew across the skin_

_Debauched him_

_Degraded him_

_He knew why he was wrong. Why he would never really be okay. He knew what happened at his home. Why he continued to live day-to-day. He knew he was a sick fuck. A disgusting freak. He heard it often enough. He knew why he continued this. As if nothing else was okay. As if he wasn't good enough without it. _

_-_

He groaned, squeezing his eyes closed as tight as he could behind his glasses as he rocked back and forth in his crouch.

-

"_You little fuck. Come here," that first time was all it really took. All it really took to break him. All it really took to show him what he was. After, he was compliant with every new trick, every new game. After, he was easy to win over, easy to maintain._

_-_

"No, no. Go away. Go away," his voice steadily grew into a whisper.

-

_The hands on him. Repulsed him, convinced him he loved it when he grew hard. Traced his scars roughly, bit into his flesh harsh. Convinced himself this was tenderness, love that he was worth for. _

_-_

"Stop!" and the memories ceased, but the traces remained, carved into his flesh to remind him of everything he was.

He soon stopped shaking, the blood on him ran dry, and soon he could stand, still a bit faint, breathing hard. Now he could return to his dorm, though he would not sleep. At least for a while his scars would keep him content, and his wounds could help him deal with the rest.

-

-

-

"Sir," Harry seemed to be trying again for the second time in a row. Perhaps he had purposefully gotten himself a detention that night solely for the purpose of being persistent. "I was wondering if you could give me private lessons, sir." Harry said, eyes now firmly trained on the man before him.

Once again the cauldrons were cleaned and there was time to waste—for Harry at least. Snape glared at him.

"Private lessons Potter, are you insane? What makes you believe that private lessons would do _you_ one bit of good? You are the _worst_ potions student I have ever seen, and I do believe that were you not friends with Hermione Granger you would not have gotten even an Acceptable on your OWLs." Despite Snape's insults, Harry continued.

"Please sir, I truly desire private lessons. If you find me unsatisfactory, I will desist and be resigned. However I feel I have much to offer in a one-on-one setting,"

"Picked up a vocabulary, Potter? What, may I ask, has spurred this need to learn the dreary art of potions making? I daresay it's your ambition to be an Auroa, is it not?" Harry shook his head.

"No, sir. To be quite honest I no longer harbor such ambitions. The truth is, free time is not exactly healthy for me and I do not like the idea that I do not know something. I wish to learn all there is to know."

"That would take years," Snape sneered. "Besides, since when was free time your enemy? I was under the impression that you were looking forward to the acquired free periods in which you were granted." Harry shook his head.

"I am perfectly happy to work for years and years to learn what I do not know, sir. And as for my reasons…I will keep those to myself, if you don't mind." Snape glared at him for a long moment.  
"Potter, I do not have the free time and the patience it would take to teach your pathetic self the art of potions. Your reasons behind your inquiry are completely absurd, and there is no possible way I will ever give you private lessons." Snape made the words 'private lessons' sound completely provocative and Harry blushed at the sudden blood he felt rushing downwards.

He rubbed his arms, feeling the ridges beneath the sleeve of his shirt, suddenly feeling bold. Soon he found himself leaning over his professor, who was sitting back in his chair, quite shocked.

His left hand rested on the right arm of the man's chair, and his right leaned on the top of the mahogany, elbow bent. His shoulder blades nearly touched as he leaned down, his hair whispered forward in silky strands to brush against the other man's face.

"You wish to know why I require private lessons, professor?" he asked quietly, voice barely audible. Without waiting for an answer from the stoic man, Harry leaned forward and whispered into his ear. _"You,"_

His tongue slowly traced the shell of the man's ear and his breathing was warm and humid against the pale flesh. The potions master did not move, and Harry immediately used this to his advantage.

He hooked one leg over the chair's arm and used his other knee to support his weight on the small part of the chair that was not occupied. His hands fell to rest on Snape's arm and shoulder, and his mouth trailed heated breaths from the man's ear to his mouth before he kissed him.

At this the man no longer sat passive and unmoving.

"That can be arranged," he growled as he grabbed Harry by his shirtfront and pulled him closer to him. Harry made an agreeable noise before their tongue's met and the kiss deepened to an almost violent harshness. It hurt but felt so good, just like his scars, but _so_ much better.

As Harry's mouth moved along the older man's jaw line and down his pale throat he pressed against him harder, noticing for the first time where his knee was resting as he felt a hardness press flush against his leg.

An immensely satisfied feeling rushed through him and he pulled back, only to rearrange himself so that his erection was pressing against Snape's. Head bent downwards, he began to unbutton the man's robes, tossing them to the side as he removed them. Snape, in turn, soon had Harry wearing only his jeans, and their bodies pressed together for the first time with skin-to-skin contact.

Harry immediately began to trail his mouth down the man's neck and over his collarbone, hands running lightly up and down Snape's sides as he rolled his hips forward slowly, savoring the feeling of their erections pressed against each other through constricting cloth.

Snape's hands trailed over Harry's arms and back, resting on his hips as the teen arched up and moved forward, his hands moving around to his torso and sliding up the tanned skin to tease the boy's hardened nipples. His hands slid back down the chest, over old scars, to run along the edge of his jeans in rough, harsh touches.

When Harry's mouth encased one of his own sensitive nipples, he gasped as the teen moaned deep in his throat before breathing hot, heavy air onto the surrounding skin.

Snape took the pause and used it to stand, pressing the boy back against his desk as he did so and pinning him there with his hips.

"Potter," Snape growled, running hands and eyes over recent markings and old scars. "What is this?" he sounded intrigued and his voice was deep and rough with lust.

"A story," Harry said, smirking as Snape examined each line and word.

Along Harry's right wrist the words 'Severus Snape' were carved, and had been gone over quite recently, while on the forearm the word 'tainted' rested, followed by 'debauchery' on the inside of the elbow. Thin and thick lines covered the areas in-between each word, and many were quite recent.

On the left wrist the word 'fuck' was red and angry, while the inside of the elbow revealed 'fag'. The shoulder bore the inscription 'whore', and, as on the other arm, lines ran in-between the words, both vertical and horizontal.

"I see," was Snape's only reply, before he quickly resumed his initial intent. Now as their pace quickened Snape became more violent, and Harry felt himself wince under the painful kiss. When the man abandoned his mouth he left a trail of angry red welts down his neck to his bellybutton, he was immediately stopped by the boy's ever present jeans.

Growling, the man tore the pants from Harry's body, and quickly disposed of his boxers soon after. Harry tugged helplessly on Snape's own pants, but the man ignored him in favour of once again staring at his scars.

More words covered both thighs. On the left, next to the juncture of hip and leg where the skin was incredibly thin, the word 'resent' was framed by tilted white lines. Further down along the thigh was the word 'degenerate' with more tilted lines that surrounded it and linked with the others.

Along the other leg there was only one word, surrounded by new lines, the word itself angry red and new. 'Dislocate'. Snape's curiosity was indeed aroused, but that was not the only thing, and his raging hard-on was his priority at the moment.

Harry was moaning beneath him, weak with need. Lust was all there was, lust and the drive for climax as he moved against Harry. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind what a mistake it was, but this took over all coherent thought, drove him to new states of need.

When his climax had shuddered through him, synchronized with Harry's own, all of reality rushed back from where the lust was keeping it at bay. He was silent as Harry slowly dressed, dressing himself with a quick flick of his wand. As Harry turned his back to him to replace his shirt, he caught sight of yet another scar on the boy.

This one was written on his back, between his shoulder and neck, on the left side.

'Property of Vernon Dursley'

It was written jaggedly and slowly, as if Harry had looked into a mirror and carved it himself. Before he could think better of it, he reached out and brushed the raised scars, causing Harry to flinch and spin around.

"Potter, what is this…?" he asked slowly, and Harry stared at him for a minute. Then the boy smiled the most angelic smile Snape had ever seen him give. His green orbs glowed with an ethereal light and the black halo of hair surrounding his face made him look almost wraithlike. And then he spoke, voice the softest of soprano.

"I love my uncle,"

Before Snape cold say a word, Harry was gone, taking the scent of angelic innocence with him, and leaving the man with the smell of sex and lust.

-

-

Two weeks later Snape was teaching the fifth year combined classes of Gryffindor and Slytherin, and with a spark of curiosity he began subtly using ligilimency on Harry. He assured himself he was only making sure the boy was alright and not suffering from any lasting trauma, but what he found put his worries to shame.

A barrage of images assaulted him, and it was all he could do not to sink into his seat behind his desk. Harry was reveling in memories of that night, two weeks prior, emotions ranging anywhere from regret, reverence, dread and helplessness. An odd tinge to it was as the very erotic feelings, and mined with the others it was a strange permutation indeed.

It was obvious that Harry was growing quite hard by reveling in this memory, and in response, Snape felt his pants tighten as well.

The experience from Harry's point of view was such a unique one, he found himself unable to exercise control once his grading hour came around. Free of any obligation, he found himself unconsciously removing his hard length from the confines of his trousers, intent on settling the obsessive desire.

Once he was, again, spent, he was yet again staggered by reality and he leaned with one hand against the dungeon wall, limp member still grasped in his left. His head bowed in guilt and shame, he sighed a ragged breath and he muttered a quick cleaning spell, righting himself before moving to the desk.

He shoved the uncomfortable shame, guilt, and self-loathing into the depths of his mind and concentrated solely on his work. Harry Potter could be contemplated at a different time. Or, better yet, not at all.

-

-

Snape prowled the hall a month after the memorable night, plagued by insomnia. He had not spoken to Harry beyond harsh orders in the classroom since that night, and nor had Harry sought a meeting with him. The two had quietly avoided each other, and the tension Snape felt was mounting regularly.

He turned a corner to descend into the dungeon once more, taking a turn down a small, rarely used corridor he had never encountered before. Along the side of the left wall, in the dim torchlight, he spotted a figure slumped on the ground and immediately quickened his pace.

Once he reached the figure he saw that it was none other than Harry Potter, passed out cold on the unforgiving floor. He nudged the boy with a foot, but when he did not move he bent over to roll the boy onto his back.

The boy was shirtless, and blood covered much of his body. It took close examination to determine the extent of his injuries, and when he had done so, the man felt sick.

'Severus Snape' was again outlined newly in red on Harry's wrist, and a deep gash in his neck symbolized the cause of death. The word 'insanity' was written quite deep on his stomach, to the left of and above the beautifully shaped belly-button. There were many long and short jagged gashes running the length of his torso, and the words "fuck', 'fag', and 'whore' were raw and sluggishly red.

Snape stood and looked down on the boy, now as numb on the inside as his exterior had always claimed to be.

Harry Potter was dead, his only true story carved into the shell of what he had been.

A/N: yay! So tomorrow I start school again, meaning slower updates. I'm excited, however. I like school. Now, please review! I've got to go because Kate is gonna call me and I get to read this to her, and hear the new chapter of her LM/HP!!!! Woot for me!

Love,

Cozy


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